


Penultimate

by rolypoly_panda



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Blood and Violence, Depression, Family Feels, Flashbacks, Gen, Gil Arroyo Needs a Hug, Gil Arroyo is Malcolm Bright's Parent, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hurt Malcolm Bright, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapped Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright Gets a Hug, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Dani Powell, Protective Gil Arroyo, Protective JT Tarmel, Torture, Whump, dont listen to me, dont worry i didnt forget about this fic, im just a fuckin liar when i say ill update biweekly, it gets p dark yall, just you wait til you finally have a new chapter to read, malcolm gets fucked up, omcs are bad dudes, shit gets heavy, unfathomably slow updates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:42:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24789421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rolypoly_panda/pseuds/rolypoly_panda
Summary: In the present, it has been three weeks since Malcolm Bright had been kidnapped. Three weeks of agony, of desperation, of a wakinghellfor Gil to endure. When they do find his son, will he ever be the same? Will he be the same Malcolm that Gil's known and loved?In the past, a string of violent murders has the team on edge, racing to find their killer before another body crops up. But this killer is smart, isdetermined,and any person standing in their way is in grave danger. Unfortunately, that person just so happens to be Malcolm Bright.In the present, the team struggles to come to terms with Malcolm's kidnapping and subsequent recovery, all whilst trying to purge the streets of the monster that took him. In the past, Malcolm faces off against a nightmare.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright & Dani Powell, Malcolm Bright & JT Tarmel
Comments: 19
Kudos: 70





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All characters and copyright content belongs to FOX.

_ Present _

Gil had begun wearing his watch facing inwards.

At first, it was an unconscious decision. The initial days had left him exhausted, discombobulated by a nightmare. He would twist his watch and then his wedding ring, alternating between the two as officers filtered in and out of the conference room with less and less evidence every passing hour. It was on the third day, though, that Gil had noticed. Hunched over his desk, aching from an unnameable guilt, he had glanced down to see his watch’s face staring back up at him, telling him that seventy hours had already passed.

The counselor assigned to his case - Linborough - had insisted it was normal. “After a traumatic loss,” Linborough had explained. “Your mind may try and soothe through familiar habits. In this case, picking up Mr. Bright’s habit of wearing his watch facing inward...may be your way of mourning.”

Gil had stood, then. Had jumped to his feet and had made for the door, spitting out, “Malcolm’s not  _ dead. _ ”

Because he wasn’t.

Gil could  _ feel  _ it.

Just has he could feel the metal against his veins, and just as he could feel the solace in the steady tapping tick of the second hand, Gil could  _ feel _ that his kid was alive. He would glance down and see the many days had passed in the form of hours and minutes, but at least he had been keeping track. The watch had reminded Gil that there was still time. It had reminded him that there would always be time, because the world hadn't stopped the moment Malcolm Bright was pronounced missing.

There was still time...

Even now, at a grand-total of three weeks, there was still time.

Gil folded his finger-locked hands over his eyes. The steel band of the watch was frigid against the edge of his forehead, the punctuated ticks echoing in the otherwise quiet office. Exhaustion pulsed through him in-time with his headache, an ache stemming from his temples down to his legs, ones that needed a stretch. His body was too demanding, too insistent on things that didn’t matter. Food, water, sleep, a  _ break _ : they were annoying necessities that Gil ignored. Because while there was still time to find Malcolm, that time was edging closer and closer to hopelessness.

He wasn’t stupid.

The likelihood that Malcolm was alive was slim. After seventy-two hours, eyewitness accounts slowed, and viable evidence became more rare. After a week, searches for a body began. And after two, hope was lost. Gil wasn’t a moron. That was how  _ all  _ kidnapping cases went. He could see the pity in his officers’ eyes. He could hear their whispers, their apologies, their muttered, “I’m sorry for your loss” speeches. But Gil couldn’t give up. His kid  _ was _ alive. He  _ knew  _ it.

Linborough had told him that his feelings were appropriate. That he was in denial - the first stage of grief, Malcolm would have said - and that it was understandable. And that had been the last time Gil went to see the doctor. It had  _ needed _ to be the last time, because if he was going to find Malcolm, it wouldn’t be in a cushioned chair of the NYPD’s grief-and-trauma counselor. It would be at his desk, with his notes, his files, his leads.

Gil slowly sat upright, huddling over his desk. His fingers flew over the piles of paperwork, stacking what had yet to be investigated and tossing the rest into an overflowing recycling bin. Weakness weathered him quickly, and Gil squinted down at an untouched lead: Veronica Schaffer, age forty-five. The woman had a beef with FBI agents after her husband was wrongfully accused and shot during a hostage negotiation. While Malcolm was no longer with the Bureau, it was still a part of his past, and that was easily identifiable through a few quick searches.

Schaffer had no criminal charges, but her face was plastered over the NYPD’s databases nonetheless. After dozens of protests - some of which had grown aggressive - she had been marked as a potentially dangerous person. However, Gil knew that, if given the right trigger, anyone could turn into a killer. Malcolm’s profiling had taught him that.

Gil set her file aside. He reached for another one when a quick knock at his door had him jerking upright.

Dani poked her head into the office. “Hey, boss…”

“Powell.” Gil turned his arm, checking the time against his wrist. “Ah, shit, I’m late. Sorry, I got distracted with a new lead...” At her somber silence, he trailed off. Carefully, he asked, “What is it?”

Dani wore her usual pain, the weariness of it darkening her eyes. She slid into the room, the door softly clicking shut behind her. Her gaze stayed low as she began, “JT isn’t staying tonight.” Gil’s heart choked. He bowed his head. Dani continued, “Something about...still not being able to take Rosa home? The doctors want to keep her and Tally overnight again, so he’s staying with them.”

Of course.

His team had lives outside of the search, outside of  _ Malcolm _ . Dani had only recently begun dating again, going on her first date a few days prior to Malcolm’s disappearance. And JT had a wife, and a  _ baby _ , now, too. Rosalina Tarmel, born five pounds and two ounces, premature by nearly one month yet still insanely strong and healthy. Gil had tried to smile for JT when the call had come in about her birth. He had tried to get excited, had  _ wanted _ to, but his happiness had fallen flat and, instead, he had whispered a curt, "congratulations” into the receiver.

Malcolm should have been there with them, should have been there to congratulate JT and Tally, and welcome the baby into the world.

Guilt squeezed Gil’s stomach. Guilt, and grief, because Malcolm would have  _ loved _ to be there. His kid was good with, well,  _ kids _ . While he was manic and easily overwhelmed and sported a bit of a flaky memory, Malcolm was still an older brother. Meeting baby Rosa would have had him smiling warmly, a full-tooth grin that crinkled his eyes. Gil knew that. And it  _ hurt-- _

“Right.” Gil croaked. He raised his head, catching Dani’s wilted stare. “Right. That’s fine. Tell him I said it’s fine. I’ll meet you in the conference room in a minute.” Gil reached for his stack of files, scooping up Veronica Schaffer’s as well. “I want to make copies of these before we comb through--”

“Gil.” She said his name softly, with caution. Gil glanced up, the dread already building in his lungs, holding his breath. “I...I’m going home, too.” she murmured. Gil sank back.

_ Of course. _

He withered into his chair. Dani kept her voice low, “All this lost sleep? It’s catching up to me. And I haven’t had a proper dinner in...weeks.” Weeks, since Malcolm, Gil presumed. “But I  _ promise _ that tomorrow? We’ll keep looking.”

Tomorrow.

Another day. Another twenty-four hours, wasted.

“That’s fine…” Gil mumbled. He could already feel himself checking out, his focus peeling away from the present and fading into the background of his office. “That’s--...Okay. Okay, go home. That’s fine.”

Dani asked, “You too?”

Behind her, the precinct was stagnant in the summer’s heat, the air conditioners off for the evening and the fans unplugged. Even the janitorial staff had begun to clear out as the hour hand inched closer to eleven o’clock. In the fluorescent lights, Dani looked  _ tired _ . Her hair had puffed into an uncontrolled curl, the bags heavy and black under her eyes, her skin pale.

Gil figured he must have looked similarly.

While Gil wanted to keep looking for Malcolm, he knew he would be rendered useless sooner rather than later. It had been weeks since he had more than a few bites of food - having just enough to sustain him - and it had been just as long since he had slept through the night. After a week of flopping around in bed, Gil had contemplated taking a few pills to knock him out. But he had remembered what those had done to him after Jackie’s death. The nightmares of her corpse rotting before him, the inescapable fear that had him waking up breathless... 

...he couldn’t do that again. Not with Malcolm.

Because Malcolm was  _ alive _ .

But Gil was worn too thin, stretched out to dry in the sun like leather. He was cracking around the edges, poked full of holes and dangerously close to ripping in half. Dani must have seen it. Or, perhaps, it wasn’t hard to tell. Perhaps everyone could see it…?

“Gil?” Dani stepped closer, her boots tapping with the second hand as she approached his desk. “Come on. You won’t be able to do much if you pass out and end up in the hospital.” He sniffed lightly, considering the valid point. She continued, “I’m going to get food. You can come with.”

It wasn’t a question. Gil blinked up at her. “What’re you getting?”

“I was thinking Taco Bell…” She pursed her lips, feigning deep thought. “But then I remembered just how much I can’t  _ stand _ Taco Bell. So, McDonald's.”

Gil huffed, trying to laugh for her sake. It sounded as hollowed out as he felt. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll go.”

After locking up his office, he fell in step behind her, trailing in her shadow as she lead them out of the precinct and into the night. He made his way to his car, but before he could reach the handle, Dani tapped his shoulder and gestured down the sidewalk. “We’re walking.”

“Walking?” Gil raised an eyebrow.

She shrugged. “There’s one a few blocks away. Like, ten minutes.” 

He was half-tempted to tell her no, to tell her that he wanted to wallow in pain in his office alone, or at home,  _ alone _ . Fuck the McDonald's…

But she held out a hand, a gesture so rare and so loud for her soft-spoken nature, and Gil couldn’t say no. He reached out, taking her hand in his, and let her guide him.

“Come on, old man,” He could hear her smile, however slight it was. “A little fresh air will do you good.”

* * *

Gil squeezed the greasy cheeseburger lightly, grimacing at the smell that wafted off the overcooked meat and plastic-like cheese. His stomach curled at the sight. Across from him, Dani dragged another fry from the paper container in-between them. She didn't bother was a conversation, and for that, Gil was thankful. But on the other hand, he needed to cut through the silence that had long-since been too stiff for him to handle. As Gil sat with his stupid McDonald's meal, he found himself becoming more and more at a loss for words.

He didn’t know what he was even doing...

His gut wouldn’t let him eat without feeling queasy, and he was so tired,  _ everything _ was unappetizing, even if he  _ was _ hungry. For once, he understood what Malcolm felt. Anxiety had left him raw and rubbed the wrong way, starving but unable to eat, worn out but unable to sleep, desperate for answers but unable to think straight. No matter how hard he tried to focus on finding Malcolm, on finding his kidnapper, his thoughts always rerouted to the most horrid of scenarios: Malcolm, dying, bleeding out in some cellar like the one Watkins had kept him in. Malcolm, alone and in agony, begging for someone to find him, to save him.

“He’s out there.” Dani interrupted his thoughts.

Gil looked up from his burger. She was chewing slower, her eyes distanced as she stared down at her salt-dusted fingers. He mumbled, “I know.”

“He is.” She scrubbed a napkin over her hands absently. “We’ll find him. Whether it’s him...or his body--” Dani stumbled on the words. Gil felt as if he were going to vomit. “We  _ will _ find him.”

Gil turned away. He could feel his jaw shaking, could ear his teeth chattering. “Not his body.” He could barely breathe out, “Malcolm’s not dead, Dani…”

Dani leaned forward, resting her arms on the tabletop. Her eyes narrowed, eyebrows pinched with worry. Or, rather, sadness. A bottomless sadness that Gil had seen her wearing only a few times in his life. Once, when it had been the anniversary of her father’s death. Again, that first day after she had been recovered from Narcotics. And again, when they had rescued Malcolm from his own home after Watkins had tortured him.

Recovering Malcolm from such a state had been difficult. Watkins had snapped his fragile psyche like a toothpick, breaking his body and shattering his mind within a few hours. While his kid had stood strong, with his chin high and shoulders straight, there was a rigidity to him ever since. And Gil couldn’t help but wonder, when they found Malcolm, would he be the same? Would he be  _ their  _ Malcolm? Or would he be wounded beyond repair?

Did it matter?

No, Gil knew. No, it didn’t matter to him. Malcolm was his kid, his  _ son _ , more family than some of his blood relatives. He would love Malcolm no matter what condition they recovered him in, and he would stand by his side regardless.

“Boss, I’m just saying,” Dani poked at the fries. “I want him to come home, too, but--” She cut herself off with a jerk of her head. Dani blinked fast. “We’ve done everything we can, Gil.”

“No, we haven’t.” Gil shook his head. “No.  _ No _ , because there are leads. I have  _ leads _ . And we’ll look through them. I found a new one tonight: Veronica Schaffer. We'll look at her case. We'll find answers.” He snarled in the back of his throat, a pop of anger kicking up into his throat as he hissed, “I’ve lost  _ every damn person _ in my life, Powell. I am  _ not _ losing him, too.”

She didn’t try to fight him. Dani bobbed her head in response. It wasn't a nod of agreement, but it wasn't disagreement, either. More contentment than anything, Gil realized. His pulse thrummed in his ears. He deflated back against the stiff booth, struggling to calm himself, to  _ breathe _ , to keep a level head despite the hell that became his life three weeks ago.

Silence stretched between them. Dani had given up on her fries, and Gil’s meal went mostly untouched, still. He plucked a fry free, and nibbled on one more, the saltiness burning his tongue.

The front door dinged as college students clambered inside, giggling and wrangling free whatever cash was stuffed into their pockets. Gil couldn’t help but stare, couldn't help but watch the kids that reminded him so much of Malcolm, for some reason. They were taller boys, built for sports rather than academia, and while Malcolm was never big nor in a friend group, he had the same smile.

Somehow, through all the shit Malcolm had endured, he still had a bright smile hidden underneath his tight profiling act and depressive episodes. The kid’s laughter was contagious, and his blind optimism - while a clear ploy against pessimistic realism - had never failed to lighten Gil’s heavy day. Even when Malcolm was a child, staying over with Ainsley after Jessica had drank herself into hysteria, he had still managed smiles. Genuine,  _ beautiful _ smiles that left a weightless joy in Gil’s chest.

One of the students glanced over at Gil.

His gaze snapped down and away. Reality smothered him. He choked around a balloon swelling in his throat. Gil's eyes found Dani, found a question beginning on her lips and, before she could ask, he interrupted, “I have to go.”

“Oh,” Dani pulled away a bit. “Okay.”

“Goodnight, Powell.” Gil stood on knee-locked legs. He managed to stumble out of the door with his composure, but he felt himself slipping, felt his sanity sliding through his fingers faster than the time that beat against the inside of his wrist.

Mid-walk back to his car, he curled over himself as he reached and lost what little food he had eaten.

* * *

The clock hanging on the wall ticked in time with JT’s pen as he tapped it against the conference room table, the clock a two-count rhythm to JT’s four. Gil was practically burning holes through the whiteboard, glaring at the pictures of possible suspects that they had gathered over the weeks. Pinned to the left of the board, a map of New York City was scribbled to hell, marked up and hardly legible anymore. He stretched over to circle Harlem: they had yet to thoroughly search there. Behind him, papers shuffled as Dani glanced through their newest subject.

“Gil, I...I don’t even know how it could be her…” Dani sighed. “Besides, Veronica Schaffer has been gone for nearly a week, anyways. Reported missing last Thursday? By her boss?” He heard her close the folder. “How does that add up to people who could have taken Bright?”

“It doesn’t.” JT mumbled.

Gil spun. He met Dani’s confused expression with a huff. “I don’t know, Powell. I thought her involvement with the FBI--...with the Bureau...” He trailed off with a curse.

Outside, a light afternoon rain hushed the tension in the room. Gil hung his head and breathed in slowly, his fingers absently brushing over his watch, over the cool face, over the icy band. He took the moment to focus on his body, on his mind, on  _ Malcolm _ , on finding his kid. Because if anyone were going to find Malcolm, it was them. It was the team that he had hand-picked years ago. If anyone was going to never give up on Malcolm, it was Gil, and Dani, and JT.

Breathing slowly, Gil shuffled forward to lean against the table, the whiteboard marker trapped under his hand. “Look,” he began. “Schaffer is in our database. She’s anti-government, anit-FBI and, so, I thought that  _ if _ she got ahold of Bright's past, she would see that he’s linked with the Bureau. And she may then...kidnap him or something, I don't know...”

“She doesn’t have a criminal record, Gil.” JT said flatly. “She isn't our kidnapper. Normal people don’t just evolve to kidnapping.”

Before Gil could snap back, Dani asked, “And we’ve looked through all the people Bright was looking into?”

“Yeah. Even the ones in his ‘maybe’ stack.” Gil hummed. “None of them even make sense to me. He was just...seeing things we can't.” Dragging a chair to the head of the table, Gil dropped down into it and cradled his forehead in his hand.

Something crushed the room. Something unnameable. It was toxic and emanating from all around them, swallowing the air and leaving Gil lightheaded. Perhaps it was Dani’s growing confusion, or her concern. Or perhaps it was JT’s darkening eyes, progressively losing their hope as day passed over day.

Or maybe it was Gil.

Maybe he sounded manic. Maybe he sounded insane. Did he sound like a grieving father? Had he lost his levelheaded lieutenant air, something that he had been priding for decades?

He was so  _ desperate _ .

Though, as he glanced between JT and Dani, he didn’t see the same want, the same  _ need _ . Dani was hunched over their files, scratching her head. And JT was distant, leaned back but stiff, an impassivity dulling his eyes.

They were giving up...

JT broke the silence. “Gil, man, please.” He kept his voice quiet, at first. His eyes flew to Dani for backup. “Guys, it’s been  _ three weeks _ .  _ Over _ three weeks, in fact. People start-- _ Man _ , they start looking for  _ bodies _ after seventy-two  _ hours _ , let alone--!”

“ _ Stop. _ ” Gil snapped upright. He threw out his hand. “Just,  _ stop _ .”

Gil spun around, facing the board again. He blinked the haze of tears from his eyes as he looked over their leads again, and again, not really seeing how any of it could be useful because how could it be when everyone was  _ losing hope? _

At first, they had rounded everyone up. Everyone in the precinct had been a participant in the search. For the first few days, they fanned out when they could and where they could, chasing anyone that smelled like their kidnapping, murdering monster. Malcolm’s suspect pool hadn’t made much sense, but they worked with what they had. And for a few days, Gil was determined. He was  _ so sure _ that “today is the day”. And he kept repeating it. "Today is the day," he would say. "Today. It's today." He was so sure…

Until the days continued. And the watch against his wrist continued to tick.

And people left.

The officers bled into the background, returning to their normal duties. Those Gil considered close friends had turned away. Their team was alone in their search for him, juggling both the major crimes of their district and Malcolm’s case at the same time.

But even his team, the last people Malcolm could depend on, were losing what little hope was left in the world.

Dani tried, “Gil, look…”

“No.” He shook his head. “No, Malcolm  _ is _ alive!”

JT jumped to his feet. “You sound  _ hysterical _ , Gil!”

Gil snapped, “I’m  _ not _ giving up on him!”

“Maybe you should!” JT’s scream reverberated off the small room’s walls. He scowled under his breath, hands dropping to his hips. “I don’t want to any more than you do, man, but he’s--”

“ _ Shut your mouth. _ ” Gil stabbed a finger at JT. Anger boiled under his skin, tightening every muscle, squeezing him until he could barely breathe. For a second, he wasn’t sure  _ what  _ he would do. He wasn’t sure, and for a second, he could see that uncertainty reflected in JT’s eyes.

JT looked scared for him, scared  _ of _ him, and he backed up as if Gil were some feral fucking animal. “Boss,” JT held his hands up. “You need  _ help _ . You're not handling this well, and--”

“My wife is  _ dead _ .” Gil spat. “And my son has been kidnapped.  _ Again _ . My--” He choked, eyes hot, face burning. Tears glued his eyelashes together. His voice cracked. “That’s my _ kid _ , Tarmel.”

Something cracked in JT. Something hardened went lax and his hands dropped to his sides. Between them, Dani was hiding her face, her hands trembling against her forehead as she smoothed her fingertips over her hairline.

JT murmured, “I’m  _ sorry _ , man. I--”

A soft rap at the door had all three of them stiffening. He knew it was likely another noise complaint. Gil dragged his sweater’s sleeve over his eyes and cleared his throat loudly, calling out, “Come in!”

Ringing phones and police chatter flooded into the room as a rookie officer poked his head through the door. “Uh, I apologize for interrupting,” the guy said sheepishly. “But there’s a call for you, lieutenant. Line five.”

“Leave them on hold.” Gil snapped. "I'll get to it in a minute."

The rookie didn’t leave. He retreated back a bit, but said, “Sir, I think you should take this.”

Gil bit his tongue. He struggled to hold his eye roll as he growled, “Who is it?”

Glancing the team over, the cop stammered out,“Uh, it-it’s from Mount Senne Hospital, sir.”

The floor gave way under Gil.

His legs nearly buckled, knees locked to hold himself upright as his heart hammered and rocked him so hard he could barely move or  _ breathe  _ and all he could think was  _ please, please, please-- _

“Sir, they’ve found him.” The rookie couldn’t hold back a smile. “He’s alive, sir. They found Malcolm Bright.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All copyright content doesn't belong to me. All characters belong to FOX.

_ Past _

He wanted to sleep.

But sleep was alluding him, leaving his body behind to writhe in his sheets as his mind wandered back to the inevitable, to the  _ case _ . He just wouldn’t  _ shut off _ , regardless of how exhausted he was. It left his brain to wander, wading in the in-between as he waited for sleep to  _ finally  _ come to him. It was a pathetic little paradox, he knew, but the situation somehow still left him half-amused. He was so tired he couldn’t keep his eyes open, yet so awake, so  _ ready _ to solve the case, that he struggled to keep them closed. Gil had warned him about getting too close, about getting too  _ fixated  _ on the things that were out of his control, but Malcolm could practically feel the answers at his fingertips, just out of reach. He would close his eyes and see the answers, see the cases, see the  _ victims _ .

And God, how he wanted to save them all.

Alas, he couldn’t go back in time. He couldn’t save them because they were already gone, beyond saving. It reminded him of his own mortality, of the ultimate end that would reach all living things, for some reason...

It wasn’t as if he were afraid to die. His past was painted in black and white, a canvas that was more dreary than it could ever be bright, and death was sewn into every stitch of that canvas. Whether it was his father’s victims or the killers he caught, death was around every corner. So to say that Malcolm was afraid to die would be a lie. But to say that he welcomed it with open arms wouldn’t quite be the truth, either. Instead, he saw it as opportunity: when it happened, it happened, and he wouldn’t try to stop it. Gil would fight it, he knew, and his newly formed alliance with Dani, JT, and Edrisa would have them swinging for him just as much as his mother or sister would. But Malcolm wouldn’t fight it. It never felt right to do so, to cheat while everyone else played fair. They died when they did, and Malcolm would as well.

He flipped over. 

Malcolm counted a breath. Then another, willing his mind to give in and just  _ rest _ . An inhale followed an exhale, but the quiet of sleep never came. For all he knew, he could have been lying in bed for hours. Or perhaps it had only been minutes. It was  _ likely _ just minutes, knowing him. Regardless, it just wasn’t working.

He ripped the sheets away and got to his feet, crossing the loft to reach the countertop. Dozens of manila folders were scattered amongst the looseleaf from where he had left it last night - or, rather, earlier that morning - before heading to bed. His glass of whiskey stood as a paperweight for their latest victim to date: Marlene Brooks. Malcolm sat down, picked up the first paper in his reach, and glanced it over.

It was the coroner’s report.

Malcolm set his forehead to his hands as he glanced over her abundance of evidence that tied to absolutely nothing. He looked over at the police logs and first responders’ statements, then to the pictures. All of it was so neatly compiled, and nothing had been missing, and yet, Malcolm could feel the gap between himself and the killer. There was a chasm separating them, and Malcolm had no idea how to cross it. After telling himself for weeks that the answers were in the victims’ near-ritualistic deaths, Malcolm had truly believed that. But now, as he looked over the report for the dozenth time, still, he was at a loss.

Her death had been the same as the others.

She had been bled through two neat puncture wounds in the creases of her arms, a tap directly from her veins. Deprived of food and of sunlight, Marlene Brooks’ body had been found sunken and pale. Ultimately, what had killed her wasn’t the torture of starvation or the pain of being bled but, rather, a gunshot wound to the forehead, right between her eyes. Edrisa had told them that there was residue on her skin, too, just as there had been with the others.

Their killer had looked his victims in the eyes when he had pulled the trigger. Malcolm had profiled their killer as a sadist, and then a narcissistic cult leader, and even an adrenaline-junkie thrill-killer looking for kicks, but none of them had stuck. At the time of suspecting, they had made sense. But, then again, he had suspected many things, and most of them never came to light, either. At the end of the day, what had led Gil to send him home, to “get rest”, to just “give it some time, kid”, was the little known fact that there  _ was  _ no profile still. There was nothing Malcolm could build from, nothing to  _ use _ .

Well, nothing he  _ wanted _ to use. 

Martin had been prying into the case for weeks, ever since the first body had made its way onto national television. He had been poking and prodding and calling him at odd hours of the day with his signature, “My boy! How’s the case coming?” Malcolm had ignored him, at first, as he always did. But as the hours turned into days, and days turned into weeks, he found himself becoming more and more desperate for an answer. For  _ any  _ answer.

Not that the Surgeon could necessarily provide one.

The last time he had answered the phone, all sleep deprived and hopped up on three cups of coffee, Martin had cooed, “You know, this case  _ is _ an odd one. I wonder what’s got this killer going…”

“He’s a sociopath.” Malcolm had answered. “Or...something.” From across the conference room table, Gil had glared sideways at him, suspicion bleeding into his eyes. Malcolm had ignored him. “He’s doing this for fun.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Malcolm,” He had practically heard Martin’s smile on the other end of the line. “I’d say that your killer is a  _ little _ more like you than you know.”

And Malcolm had hung up. Had practically given up on the Surgeon being a resource on such a case. After all, the man was behind bars, banned from the news, confined, and for good reason: he would spew gibberish and wax poetic pertaining to cases only to keep himself relevant in Malcolm’s life. His words were empty, weightless…

Though Malcolm couldn’t  _ not _ think of what he had said.

What he had been implying.

“We’re the same.” Martin had always told him. Just as he had told him, “Your killer is more like you than you know.”

Decades of his mother’s reassurances that, “you’re  _ nothing _ like him, Malcolm” had taught him to block Martin out. Years of Gil telling him that he was a hero, that he saved lives had made Malcolm want to believe that he was a good person. A normal person. Someone that others could look up to, and trust, and maybe then he could trust himself. But when he looked in the mirror, he saw the Surgeon. When he spoke, he heard Martin Whitly. When he cheated, and lied, and manipulated to have his way, to solve a case because the case was  _ always _ what mattered most…

All he could think of was his father.

Malcolm slapped the files shut. He scrambled to reach for the papers, shoving them into odd folders and get them as far away from him as possible. The whiskey glass skidded to the edge of the countertop as the reports were tossed the other way. Malcolm leaned forward. His head dropped to his hands for the umpteenth time that night. He pulled in a breath, calculated his thoughts, filtered through them carefully, and breathed out.

Focusing on the case was his priority.

Not his father. Not the victims. Not the hellish reality of it all.

_ Just  _ the victims.

Through his fingers, he glanced at the files half-over the edge of the counter. They were too far away to paw closer, and Malcolm couldn’t work himself up to grabbing them. Instead, he stared at them, at the too-small print and the grotesque crime scene photos poking out from underneath the closed folders. 

The pictures spoke to him from afar. At first, they were whispers, wondering what he was doing, why he was doing it, where he was and where they were, and Malcolm couldn’t find an answer. Their bodies were in the morgue, their families had been notified, and they were dead. But somehow that didn’t seem a plausible enough answer. They deserved closure. Something Malcolm couldn’t give. So he didn’t answer. He merely listened.

He listened as they spoke. As they talked amongst themselves from inside the manila folder. Their voices were sharp with anger. And as they materialized one by one, filtering in with the moonlight, Malcolm grew more and more content. Because now he could ask them the questions he needed to. Now he could ask them for forgiveness, for more time to find their killer so he could bring them peace.

Victim number one - Peter Westley - hovered before him, leaning against the countertop. His hands were caked with dirt, dirtied despite his body being found clean. “What happened to me?” he asked.

Malcolm shook his head. “I don’t know…” 

“And me?” From behind him, the second victim - Lily Patterson - materialized, glowing in the darkness of the loft. Pine needles and leaves stuck out of her hair. “What happened to me?”

“You died.” Malcolm said. And as if the answer weren’t obvious to her, her face crumpled. Malcolm continued, “You were killed. But I  _ will _ find your killer. I’ll--”

“Will you?”

Malcolm turned, facing forward, level with his father. Martin stood with his hands behind his back, his smile rigid and gaze cold. He asked, “Or will you end up just like them?” His eyebrow popped up. “Or, maybe, you’re more like our killer? Maybe  _ you _ are our killer?”

“I’m not.” Malcolm shook his head. His heart thrummed in his chest. He wheezed around a tightening pressure. Soft buzzing grew in his ears, louder and louder with every passing second. “I’m  _ nothing _ like them.” He jabbed a finger at Martin. “I’m nothing like  _ you. _ ”

“Oh,” His father’s face lightened at Malcolm’s rage. “But I wouldn’t be too sure of that…”

Malcolm slammed his hand on the countertop. The sound was swallowed by the silence, by the ever-growing buzzing. “I’m--!”

“I’d say that your killer is more like you than you know. I’d say that, perhaps, you are more like your killer than you’d ever like to admit.” Martin interrupted. He grinned. “Think about it. It makes sense. Or am I wrong?”

The buzzing was deafening, burning through him. “You’re wrong!” Malcolm jumped to his feet--

He collided hard with the floor.

Malcolm jolted, flipping onto his back before scrambling to his feet. He hadn’t remembered falling asleep. On the counter, his phone was rattling, an incoming call bringing it to life. Malcolm groaned, scrubbed a hand over his face, and picked it up.

Dani.

“Hello.” he answered, then glanced around. There were no ghosts, no victims and, most importantly, no Martin Whitly. The files were still to the left of him, and his dried-up whiskey glass to his right. Luckily, he hadn’t broken the stool when waking up, but it had toppled with him, resting on its side a few inches away from where he had fallen. He was fortunate he hadn’t gone outside, or done something stupid.

Dani’s voice filtered through his thoughts. “Hey. Gil’s got a new one.”

Malcolm sighed.

Another victim meant more evidence, letting him get one step closer to their killer. He couldn’t think of the people behind those crime scene photos, of the families that had lost someone. Malcolm swallowed around a balloon of tension building in his chest and said, “Okay. I’ll be right over--”

“I’m almost to your place.” Dani interjected. “Gil wanted me to grab you. You’ll be ready in ten, right?”

Malcolm glanced over himself. He had slept in the clothes he had worn to work yesterday and he was, oddly enough, missing a sock. The situation looked ridiculous to him, but most things did nowadays. He nodded to himself. “Yeah, sure. Be ready in ten.”

Dani hung up first. His arm dropped to his side. Malcolm glanced back to the case files once more before heading for his closet.

  
  


To Malcolm’s surprise, the drive over had been quiet.

He was half-expecting Dani to interrogate him, to push him about what was wrong, to prod him about the tipped over stool in the kitchen of his loft. Instead, she had scooped up the files scattered across the countertop without a word and had even held the doors open for him as they slipped out of his building. As Dani pulled up to the curb of the road of their new crime scene, Malcolm had anticipated that the silence would follow suit.

She shifted the car into park. Malcolm pulled his belt away. Dani did the same. They sat in the car, trapped in an unexpectedly heavy silence. He felt as if  _ he _ should say something, as if he should explain his behavior to her, to the team because, over the past few days he had, admittedly, been more irritable than usual. The sleepless nights, the impatience to solve the case, the crime scenes piling up and drowning them…

Malcolm just wanted it to be over. But they  _ all _ wanted that, and so his explanation felt flat to him. Shifting hesitantly, Malcolm made for his door handle. Before he could get out, Dani twisted in her seat and blurted, “Hey, you good?” Her face was pinched with concern as she glanced him over. “You’re...acting weird. Or, weirder than normal.”

Malcolm waved her off. He sighed, bitter but amused. While he appreciated the sentiment of concern, it was honestly the  _ last _ thing he wanted. “I’m fine. Just tired. I didn’t sleep much last night…”

“Isn’t that normal for you?” She quirked an eyebrow.

Dani wasn’t stupid, but Malcolm had  _ hoped _ he would have be able to conceal his exhaustion a bit better. What had given him away: the dark rings under his eyes, or perhaps his shakier-than-normal shaky hands? He bowed his head to his chest, picking at the dirt under his fingernails. Malcolm couldn’t even remember the last time he had showered, let alone ate a decent meal. It was normal for him to snack throughout a day, what with his meds making his stomach unsure of anything too heavy in calories. And it was normal for him to nap on-and-off, getting sleep where he could because dreaming for too long was dangerous. But this case was taking something out of him.  _ Literally _ , he felt, sometimes. There were days when he felt less human and more robotic as he worked through the motions of the casework, passing off as the FBI-turned-NYPD profiler Malcolm Bright. It were as if he were wearing a skin of himself.

“Being tired is normal, yeah.” he agreed, after a beat. His eyes lifted up, out the windshield, looking anywhere but at her. “But I guess I’m just…” He vaguely gestured to his head. “ _ Mentally _ tired. Not even physically. I feel...off.”

Dani nodded. “Yeah, I bet.” She propped her door open and hopped out.

Malcolm scurried after her, stepping out onto the sidewalk. When she rounded the front of the car, he asked, “Why’s that?”

“You don’t usually talk much.” she said, though not void of emotion. It was quite the opposite, which surprised Malcolm. Dani’s eyes were pinched at the corners, as if she were unsure of her words. She kept her fingers folded tight in front of her as she spoke softly. “It’s just--I’m  _ glad  _ you said something. And it’s not bad to talk. It’s just...different. You usually keep to yourself with, well... _ everything _ .”

If he were being honest with himself, Malcolm felt a swell of self-consciousness at Dani’s words. He felt the heat of her eyes, of her concern. Malcolm wrestled his tie a bit, loosening it from where it cut into his neck a bit too tightly. “Trying something new, I guess.”

“It’s good.” Dani peeled her hands apart, then clapped lightly. A warmth to her smile made her glow. “Thank you. For telling me.”

“No problem.” Malcolm nodded a bit, then turned.

The luxury apartment was tall, towering over most other buildings on the block. While taxis and fancy cars were parked on either side of the street, cramming up the road, Malcolm could see where the tenants of these apartments could park underground, safe in a gate-locked garage. As if the giant windows and curlicue architectures weren’t loud enough about flaunting the wealth of the place, the dozens of amenities packed a brutal punch for Malcolm. Whoever was capable of breaking into the building to deposit a  _ body _ was skilled. So much so, that it almost enticed Malcolm.

_ Almost. _

Because being enticed by killers was his  _ father’s  _ expertise. Being excited by the people who were twisted enough to torture and murder and destroy a human life so grotesquely…

That wasn’t him.

And seeing mutilated bodies certainly  _ was not  _ enticing.

Malcolm’s stomach squeezed. He swallowed his disgust, letting out a long-winded sigh.

In that moment, he wanted to do anything  _ but _ see the victim’s body. He knew Gil was waiting for them, wanting to wrap up this crime scene as quickly as possible and just  _ move on _ , but Malcolm had seen enough of this killer’s crimes for a lifetime, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to see one more. The victims’ bodies were a millstone dragging him under, a rinse-and-repeat of his failure to catch their killer, and the prospect of seeing the  _ same damn thing  _ yet again left his gut twisted in knots.

Though something in Malcolm’s mind asked him, “What’s one more?” Something had said, “You’re one step closer to solving this puzzle.”

And Malcolm felt sick. He felt gross mentally, physically, maybe even  _ spiritually _ , and he wasn’t even religious. No amount of scrubbing or showering would wipe away the sensation of his father’s psyche rattling around in his head with him, telling him that he  _ should _ be interested, that it was  _ okay _ to be engrossed. As much as Malcolm wanted to peel that part of himself away and to just cut it out like the cancerous rot it was, he knew it was impossible. But between his own self-bullying and the dulcet agony of exhaustion nipping at his heels, Malcolm wasn’t sure how much longer he could go.

Perhaps he should retire after this case.

Or, perhaps that was a terrible idea…

He couldn’t even go a  _ day _ without  _ something _ to do, or to solve--

The brush of Dani’s fingers against his arm startled him from his thoughts. He jerked sideways, blinking back his surprise as best he could. If Dani noticed, she didn’t say anything. She merely asked, “You ready?”

“Yeah.” Malcolm fell into step beside her, keeping her pace as they approached the building in-stride. They took the front steps two at a time and slipped through the heavy double doors.

Malcolm glanced up in awe.

Twin spiral staircases laced either side of the foyer and, beyond them, a chandelier glittered above, casting patterns upon the stretches of marble flooring at their feet. He walked slow as he made for the elevators, taking his time to admire the brief moment of peace the place offered. While it wasn’t long, it gave Malcolm a semblance of normalcy. Dani must have felt out of her element, he knew, but for Malcolm, the luxurious apartment wasn’t far off from the many places he went as a child. His mother’s friends had always hosted grand parties in places that were expensive, even for his taste. And his grandparents had owned multiple estates that looked so similar to where he stood now.

For just a brief second, Malcolm felt at home.

The elevator dinged and the doors opened. Dani stepped inside first. She held her arm out to stop the door for him, and Malcolm reluctantly slipped in. As the doors shut, Malcolm could feel something he could only describe as claustrophobic. Though, it had made sense. While the walls weren’t slowly closing in on him, and the oxygen getting thinner and thinner with every floor, he  _ was _ headed up to see yet another body, from the same damn killer he just couldn’t get his hands on.

Malcolm bit his lip, rolling the skin between his teeth. Next to him, Dani began, “Hey, look--”

The elevator stopped and the doors opened, splitting their reflections in half. Dani shut her mouth. Malcolm swallowed his anxiety.

The loft was completely silent.

Gil and JT eyed Malcolm and Dani. Neither said a word. Dani and Malcolm walked in slowly, taking in the money, the beauty, and the horror of the body sprawled on the floor. Gil glanced over Malcolm, then bowed his head towards their new victim. His hands were in his pockets and his gaze was shallow with frustration. Anger rolled off of him in waves, rushing into Malcolm with every heavy breath he took. 

“Name’s Serena Hopkins.” Gil ground out. “Nineteen. This is her mother’s loft.”

Malcolm listened, but turned to face Hopkins.

Her body had been abandoned on the floor - just like the others’ had - with the same vulnerabilities in place: her arms and legs were fanned out, and her back was face-up, exposed and mutilated with engravings that just made  _ no sense _ to Malcolm. 

JT continued where Gil left off, “She was reported missing two weeks ago, too. Nothing new there. And just like the others, it was out of the blue. No note. No text. No call. Nothing.”

Gil asked, “What’s the profile, Bright?” There was an intensity to his words, something Malcolm couldn’t quite put his finger on. Frustration would have been too light, but anger would have been too heavy. Gil wanted his answers, as they all did, but where Dani, JT, and Edrisa had looked at the evidence, Gil had looked to  _ him _ . Anticipating.  _ Waiting _ for his goddamn answer and Malcolm couldn’t give it, no matter how badly he wanted to. “Is it the same as before?”

Malcolm sighed. He crouched next to the victim. Nothing was new. He didn’t  _ need _ to look because he had seen it before, a dozen times. “If by ‘same’ you mean ‘nonexistent’, then yes,” Malcolm rubbed his forehead. “It’s the ‘same’ profile...”

JT mumbled, “This guy’s got to be playing us.”

“Maybe…” Malcolm breathed out. He wasn’t quite paying attention, instead zoning out as he stared off at the carvings in Hopkins’ back. This blood had yet to dry, despite there being an absence of blood on the floor from the gunshot wound to her forehead. How was a corpse still bleeding? And, had the previous crime scenes had something similar? Malcolm couldn’t remember. He thought he knew the ins and outs of the case, knew everything there  _ was to know _ about the victims’ evidence. But this…

“Hey, Bright?” Gil snapped his fingers. “Bright? What do you mean by ‘maybe’? What’s going on in that head of yours, hm?”

“I...Nothing.” Malcolm mumbled. His chin dropped to his chest. “I’ve got nothing. I...I don’t know why I said that, I’m just…” He gestured vaguely with his hand, not even sure  _ what _ he was gesturing, before he deflated and said, “I got nothing.”

Gil hissed, “At  _ all? _ ”

“I…” Malcolm’s thoughts stammered. “M-Maybe he--...Maybe he’s a sadist? Like we originally thought?”

JT said, “That’s always been up in the air, bro. That’s not anything new.”

Malcolm groaned, “I  _ know _ , but now it’s even  _ more _ of a possibility.”

“Why?”Gil snapped. 

It didn’t even sound like a question to Malcolm. He shrugged wildly and spat back, “I don’t know! Because I said so? I’m the profiler so,  _ here _ , here’s me profiling!”

JT stepped forward. “Man,  _ calm down _ \--”

“ _ You _ calm down!” Malcolm leapt to stand.

Dani’s voice was quiet as she said, “Bright, you’re being a little--”

“ _ What? _ ” Malcolm flipped around, facing her, suddenly seething, his face hot and hands shaking harder than he thought they could. “I’m  _ what _ , Dani? Acting crazy? Because  _ yes _ , this is driving me  _ insane _ . After  _ weeks _ of this and we still have  _ nothing--! _ ”

“Hey!” Gil cut him off, grabbing his arm. Malcolm whipped around. “Take a walk.  _ Now. _ ”

Malcolm turned again. JT had gotten close,  _ too _ close, whereas Dani had backed away. Malcolm stood in the center of it all, the victim’s corpse to his left and Gil at his right, still holding his upper arm in a tight grip. Malcolm licked his dry lips, his throat feeling raw, desperate for water. Had he been yelling that much?

“ _ Bright. _ ” He turned back to face Gil, slower this time, his breathing evened out as he willed himself to calm down. “Take a walk. Let’s go.”

Gil guided him to the elevator. Midway there, he released Malcolm’s arm, letting him trail behind him a few feet. The elevator arrived. Malcolm blinked, and he was inside, dropping the floors fast despite it taking seconds for the numbers overhead to change. He blinked, and Gil was ushering him out into the hallway of the foyer, telling him, “My car’s parked behind Dani’s. Let’s go.” He blinked again, and they were stood next to the Le Mans. Gil was wrestling his keys free, leaving Malcolm behind on the passenger’s side of the car, though eyeing him with concern.

It made Malcolm feel sick. His fingers twitched. “Gil,” he began. “I’m fi--”

“Get in the car.” Gil interrupted, his order flat but careful. He dropped into the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut.

Malcolm groaned, rolled his eyes, and got in. “I’m fine, Gil.” he finished. “Just tired. I don’t know what came over me…”

“I’ll tell you what it is,” Gil started the Le Mans. He grabbed the sunglasses off the dash. “It’s this case. It’s driving us all nuts, Bright. My bosses want answers, FBI may come in  _ again _ \--” Malcolm groaned. Gil continued, “And we’ve got family members left and right asking questions. So, I get it, kid. I really do.”

Malcolm nodded. He sagged into the seat, sighing.

Gil said, “I get it.” A drawn out pause made Malcolm bristle. “That’s why I’m sending you home. For good.”

“ _ What? _ ” Malcolm snapped upright.

“Until we gain some headway, here, you’re on a leave of absence.” Gil said. He pulled the Le Mans from its parking spot, not paying Malcolm any mind as he slid into traffic and headed towards the loft. “I’m sorry, Bright, but I can’t have you... _ well _ , doing whatever it was you were doing just now. You need to take some time, think about things  _ other _ than this case ‘cause it  _ can’t _ be healthy for you, kid.”

Malcolm hissed, “ _ Gil _ , are you  _ serious--? _ ”

“I am, Bright. I really am.” He pulled down his sunglasses to stare Malcolm down. And Malcolm wilted under his gaze, dropping back against the seat again and instead opting to look out the window. Because there was no winning against Gil. With this, he would have Malcolm revoked from any and all evidence and information pertaining to the case, he knew. Just as he knew Gil would make sure Dani and JT and Edrisa couldn’t talk to him about anything other than himself, or how he was doing, or something  _ useless _ that didn’t matter.

Malcolm sighed.

He’d just have to find a way around Gil, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I'm back. I'll spare y'all the details, but I'm back. Raise your hand if you've had to reread chapter one for the _third_ time to try and remember what the hell this fic is even about...
> 
> If you vibe with NBC Hannibal or Umbrella Academy, specifically pertaining to Will-centric (for Hannibal) or Five-centric (for UA) fics, give me a bit. I'll have stuff uploaded soon on AO3. Also, thank you to my unofficial official beta, Jameena! Writing this whilst having you as a big brain fly on the wall was awesomesauce. And thank you to all my friends on discord and on tumblr who were encouraging as hell. I'm sorry that I had to pretty much dip from both those places, but I miss you guys and I hope you are all having the _best_ of times. You're all wildly talented and a lot of fun.
> 
> Thank you for being so patient, you guys. Nobody nagged asking repeatedly about the next chapter, and nobody got mad at me for needing some time. I appreciate the hell out of that. I hope this chapter lives up to its wait and, if not, I'll be uploading chapter three...eventually. Hopefully soon haha. Thank you all for reading!


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